


Strictly Platonic

by plutomere



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: 4 things + 1, But before the ending of the game, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Mistaken Relationship, Post-Skip, local couple shocked to learn they’ve been dating for months
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 03:15:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20284474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutomere/pseuds/plutomere
Summary: Four times Claude and Byleth are confused for a couple, and one time they aren’t.





	Strictly Platonic

**Author's Note:**

> This is super self-indulgent and filled with too many headcanons. Most importantly though, I don’t think the S-support at the end was Claude and Byleth’s first confession, and this fic is about that.

Rumors of Claude and Byleth's secret love affair spring up almost as soon as they raise the Resistance's new banner. The roguish, devastingly handsome Alliance leader and Rhea’s successor, a stoic force of nature, side by side… It’s a picture that paints itself, Ignatz says when Byleth voices her confusion. Though the gossip is silly, it has the resilience of a roach. No matter how many denials Byleth makes, the monastery staff still giggle when they catch her and Claude discussing work in the halls.

While Byleth finds the rumors befuddling, they're popular even outside the monastery. Claude mentions this to her during a supply run discussion, along with a shrewd observation that a recent increase of the rumors matches an increase in food donations. When he suggests they let the rumors continue, Byleth agrees with his judgement. Their food rations are so slim that she'd be a fool to turn down an opportunity to increase supplies.

Still, it’s one thing to allow songs of her 'passionate romance' with Claude to exist, and quite another to listen to them.

As the tavern bard launches into another swooning song about her clandestine relationship with Claude, Byleth treats the musician to a piercing stare. Free room and board may not be worth this torture, she thinks. The sleepy village had offered space at the inn after her forces repelled a pack of beasts threatening their woods, but now she thinks the favor would've been better used sending away the minstrel. “Everyone keeps looking over here,” Byleth mutters. “More than usual.”

Across the table of Deer, several members snicker into their drinks. “They’re waiting for you two to make out,” Hilda chirps, the only one bold enough to voice what Byleth's sure they're all thinking.

“Well, I’m trying to drink my tea,” Byleth says, and Claude snorts. If the songs annoy him, he's not letting it show. With one arm draped over the back of her chair and his legs stretched into Ignatz's long-abandoned chair opposite them, Claude looks at complete ease. The familiar smirk on his lips is fake, but his smile is always fake when they're in a crowd.

“I’ll drink to that,” Leonie crows, before downing her own mug of something stronger. It's been so long since they've had proper food and drink that Byleth doesn't have the heart to warn the girl to moderate herself.

“Commoners gossip because of behavior like that,” Lorenz says, jabbing a finger at Claude’s arm like it's an offense against common decency. If a casual arm is enough to rile up a countryside, the countryside is the unreasonable one, Byleth thinks. As their commander though, she doesn't grumble further in front of the Deer. She can save the complaints for Claude later.

“And there's the constant tête-à-tête conversations ,” Lorenz adds, as if he can read her mind. "Of course people will assume something torrid when a man and a woman are always behind closed doors."

“Well, I can’t point out the stain on your blouse within your earshot, Lorenz. That ruins the fun,” Claude says. Lorenz fumbles over his spotless shirt. “Kidding, kidding.”

Lorenz's cheeks grow rosy with embarrassment and irritation. “I’m trying to help your reputation,” Lorenz huffs. “The professor’s reputation. All that gallivanting about you did while she was gone ensured yours is beyond saving, Claude.”

“If those rumors help our Resistance Army, then I don’t mind my reputation,” Byleth says, before the bickering can get out of hand. At her stern tone, Lorenz eases back in his seat.

“You know exactly what to say to a man, Teach,” Claude purrs, riling Lorenz into a lobster red flush. As Lorenz launches into a tipsy lecture on noble decorum, Byleth aims a discreet kick at Claude's ankle. Claude has the nerve to hide a smirk in his mug.

“What a sacrifice you two are making for the Resistance,” Hilda says, over Lorenz's rambling. Hilda's tone is so dry Byleth feels the potted plants in the inn start to wither. “Whatever would you do without an elaborate scheme to justify your bedroom eyes?”

“Ah, well, then I’d have to be honest with myself about my feelings. Gracious, that sounds terrible,” Claude says. He scrunches his face in mock discomfort before melting back into a grin. “Fortunate we have this elaborate scheme to avoid pondering that quandary, eh, Teach?” After his shit-stirring with Lorenz, Byleth doesn't humor him. Unperturbed, Claude sips his tea.

“I do hope I’m there when realization sinks in, Claude,” Lorenz sighs. “Seeing that smug smirk slide off your face will be sweet indeed.”

“I've never seen that look slide off before. His face might be stuck,” Byleth says.

“The healers did warn me that could happen,” Claude says. He turns the full brunt of his puppy eyes to Byleth. Though she's seen him tease women before--and been on the receiving end of his false flirtations in his school days--his weaponized charm is still dizzying when turned on her. “At least it keeps me roguishly handsome, right, Teach?”

“You think enough of your looks as it is. I doubt you need to hear confirmation from me,” Byleth says. What she's sure Claude is more interested in is their eager audience of townsfolk. Though the caterwauling minstrel drowns out their conversation, how they look is enough to launch more gossip across the village. Byleth can already hear a sappy story about how cozy they got at the inn--but she's also tired of seeing more plate than food at dinnertime.

Claude grins cheekily at her, a smile that dances on the edge of false and true. “It’s one thing to know it and quite another to hear it,” Claude says. He glances across the tavern to confirm their audience before leaning towards her. Claude graces her with a sappy, lovelorn sigh, and Byleth knows what he’s about to do before he can even start.

“Don’t quote one of those little songs at me,” Byleth murmurs.

“They’re ballads, Teach,” Claude says. Despite her dead-eyed, imperious stare, Claude catches a strand of her hair and gives it a long appraisal. Finally, his attention flicks back to her, in a patented smolder that’s melted several monastery staff members into puddles. “I’m not even allowed to mention your hair looks like starlight? Are you saying I should lie to you, Teach?”

Byleth exhales sharply through her nose, the closest she’ll allow to a laugh with so many of their Deer ogling. Claude releases her hair and returns to his tea, smugness now genuine. “That better translate into pheasant,” Lysithea says. Claude winks.

* * *

No matter how compelling, rumors of Byleth and Claude's budding romance don't persuade the Empire to throw down its arms. As Edelgard’s offensive grows more oppressive, strategy sessions stretch longer into the night. As strategy sessions stretch longer into the night, the mood in the war room grows more strained. Tonight, Byleth resists the urge to beat her head against a wall while a minor Alliance lord picks a fight with Claude over their position in the upcoming offensive. Because that’s an argument they all want to have at two in the morning, Byleth thinks wrily.

The roundtable watches in disengaged silence as Claude and the noble move the noble’s figurine across the war map. Hilda’s stopped feigning attention long ago, now busy toying with a bracelet on Marianne’s wrist. Byleth paces in the back of the room, movement all that's keeping her from falling asleep on her feet. Only Claude and the irritated lordling have any energy left in them, and a glance tells her Claude's struggling to stay alert himself.

As if he can sense her stare, Claude beckons her over with a flick of his fingers. Despite her misgivings, Byleth shuffles into the space he’s made for her before the map. She doesn’t miss the nobleman’s little head-to-toe inspection of her, one that culminates in an inexplicable sneer at Claude. For her part, Byleth thinks it's bold of the noble to wander about a war without a sword, but she doubts the noble cares about an ex-merc's opinion on anything.

Claude draws in close to point out the noble’s marker, now moved to some woods at the rear of the offensive. His warmth is pleasant in the drafty war room, some sleep-addled corner of her brain notes. “You’re the one who has to make something practical from whatever we scheme.” Claude says, words tickling her hair. “What’re your thoughts on the current positioning?”

“She can’t decide without seeing the other option first. You’ve made your pitch. Now, stop crowding the girl,” the nobleman snaps, waving Claude away. Once Claude complies, the nobleman snatches Byleth's arm in one bejeweled hand and tugs her to the opposite of the map. He drags his figure over to match, placing it dangerously close to the bridge they’re trying to hold.

“Stick with the first option. This positioning is impractical,” Byleth says, several hours beyond mincing words. When the nobleman grimaces, all she can think is that he should've accepted Claude's more eloquent word.

“Thank you,” Claude sighs. “Now—"

"Of course she agrees with you. That's what you're bedding her for, isn't it?" the nobleman snaps. Hilda jerks from her seat, sending it screeching across the stone. It’s the only sound in the deafening silence that crashes down on the room. The nobleman shoots them a dismissive sneer. "Oh, don't act so scandalized. We all knew it."

Claude, usually quick with a comment, is quiet. "I, for one, wasn't aware Claude was bedding me," Byleth says, since the burden of talking falls on her.

"We all knew it," the nobleman says again. The nobleman glances at her, and whatever he sees on her stoic face makes him apologetic. "Riegan might be pleasant on the eyes, my dear, but he's a snake beneath. Whatever sweet nothings he whispered to you were only because he saw benefit from it, nothing more. His people don't know--"

"If you insist on finishing that sentence, we'll be finishing our conversation in the training yard," Byleth says. The tension in the room is palpable. The entire table has their attention glued on the space at the rear of the war room, presumably Claude. "Dismissed, the lot of you."

The nobility shuffles out in heavy silence, even the other Deer not daring to linger behind. Once Marianne's closed the door, Byleth turns to Claude. The aggressive disaffection on his face is a plunge into an icy lake. Uncomfortable cold rushes up from her navel, as numbness sinks from her head down to her toes. "That guy was an ass," Byleth says. It's what her father's mercenaries would say about a terrible client, and it feels appropriate to parrot it here.

Claude snorts, in amusement faked for her benefit. "You've not spent much time around the Alliance. Being an ass is the only way to keep your house afloat. He probably hoped that he could get the other houses to turn on us by voicing what a lot were thinking. Then he could swoop into some of the power vacuum," Claude says. "Fortunately, he didn't seem to have many allies tonight. That nonsense he spouted about you will be little more than dinnertime gossip tomorrow."

Claude sweeps to the war table and hunches over the figures, frown darkening his face. He plucks the lord's figure off the map and drops it in the figure box. "I've got to sort out what to do with our formation now that he's out. Obviously, he can't stay after speaking about us like that," Claude says. "This may be awhile. You should get some sleep, my friend."

In the dim candlelight, Claude looks more haggard than ever. If the war is taxing on them, Byleth suspects it must tax him, the leader of the Alliance and their tactician, most of all. As she watches him rub his furrowed brow, Byleth curses her lack of emotional experience. Comforting Claude would be easy for someone... normal.

Rather than retreat to her bedroom, Byleth perches herself on the table beside Claude. "Hey. That nonsense he spouted about you won't last long either," Byleth says.

"The truth tends to stick around," Claude says, without glancing from his work. "The part about my bed was nonsense, but even after all these years, I am still using you. You deserve better than that."

"That's what you're upset about? Use me how you want. I trust you," Byleth says. Claude glances up at her. A strange look crosses his face, like he’s pushed a door that could only be pulled open, and Byleth feels a pang of anxiety. She's missed a social cue somewhere again. "Mercenaries are used to acting as other's blades. It's not so odd."

"Mercenaries get paid," Claude says. "There's not enough gold in all the Alliance to pay the debt I owe you. You'd be better served working for the Empire, my friend."

"I trust you," Byleth says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Actions are easier than words to her. She pushes every ounce of emotion and validation she can into her gesture. It's the only way she can think to convey to him that she would follow his lead to the ends of the world and back.

Claude clears his throat. It's rare to see him at a loss for words. "You should know I feel the same," Claude says, a bit of color creeping into his cheeks. Byleth smiles. "I'll manage our lordling in the morning. You get some rest."

“Don’t stay up too late yourself. You look a little feverish,” Byleth says, at which Claude hunches so thoroughly over the war table that she can’t see his face at all.

* * *

When they return to the monastery with Judith and House Daphnel’s forces, Claude declares the first order of business a feast. Buried beneath the fresh mountain of paperwork spawned by the arrival of their newest forces, Byleth skips the event. Despite the resolution to work, she still lets Claude coax her into his quarters with the promise of a bottle of wine, good conversation, and access to Judith's ledgers, which he's conveniently monopolized.

They do start with paperwork, as they pass the wine bottle between them. Working with Claude (on something that isn't life and death) is a bit of cozy serenity Byleth hasn't gotten to enjoy since they left for Ailell. The coziness is so alluring that she hardly notices when 'paperwork with wine' turns to 'wine with paperwork' to 'drunken rambling with Claude.' After drinking an irresponsible amount of wine, shirking an irresponsible amount of work, and recalling their positions of importance to the Resistance, Byleth and Claude decide to plan battalions despite the wine.

Clearing enough books to lie down together on the floor is a struggle that nearly stops their attempt to be productive in its infancy. After surveying the cleared space, they drag one of Claude's blankets to the ground to function as a rug. This is the only accomplishment of the night. Planning battalions, Byleth discovers, is difficult when thinking straight is difficult.

“Wyverns,” Claude says, gesturing across the ceiling with an outstretched hand.

Byleth turns her head to look at him. They lie shoulder to shoulder on his blanket, close enough that Byleth could count the stray freckles on his nose, if she dared to look at him long enough. The concentration on Claude's face is both genuine and endearing. “We already deploy those,” Byleth says, as she shifts to gaze back at his ceiling. “You're so... so drunk.”

“No—Wyverns with fire,” Claude huffs.

“Don’t they breathe fire?” Byleth asks.

It's his turn to look at her, and Byleth tries not to fidget as he does so. When they're this close, it feels like he could see through her. He might see that she's really the Ashen Demon, a freak that can't feel, not the intriguing friend he's confused her for. Instead of recoiling, Claude returns to his dazed inspection of the ceiling looking triumphant. “They don’t. Now who’s 'so drunk’?” Claude asks, in a poor imitation of her voice.

“Why? Because I don’t know wyvern trivia?” Byleth asks, far too relieved at having passed his investigation. "At least I know we have wyverns."

“I know we have--You're so--Never mind. Point is—Wyverns, those fire barrels… There’s an idea in there,” Claude says.

“A drunk idea, maybe,” Byleth says. She frowns up at the stained--how is it stained, her drunken mind wonders--ceiling. “How would they even carry the barrels? Wyverns don’t… don’t… have hands.”

They roll over to look at each other together. Mischief sparks in Claude's eyes as he leans in to whisper. “Whaddya think a wyvern with—”

“Don’t,” Byleth whispers back. It feels wrong to talk at full volume. The cursed image of... that creature deserves the utmost secrecy. Besides, Byleth's found there's something giddy about whispering with Claude on his bedroom floor. She's not drunk on the wine anymore. It's the deep green of Claude's heavy-lidded gaze, the smell of him clinging to the blankets, the warmth--The wine. Definitely the wine, Byleth thinks.

A genuine grin plays on Claude's lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “But—”

“It’ll haunt both our nightmares if you say it,” Byleth hisses.

Claude inches closer, close enough that one more shift could close the gap. “Just… What does it look—”

The bedroom door bursts open, smacking against the wall with a sharp crack. Byleth fumbles for the dagger at her belt before she’s laid eyes on the intruder. Instead of the graceful leap, weapon in hand, she intended, Byleth lurches to a sloppy heap atop Claude's chest.

“Boy!” Judith barks. She looks every bit as impeccable and commanding well past midnight as she does during the day. However, her commanding air falters when her eyes land on them. It’s the first time Byleth’s ever seen her speechless. Face reddening, Byleth picks herself up from Claude's chest.

“Don't they teach knocking in House Daphnel?” Claude asks, a hint of sourness in his slurred voice. With ginger hands, he maneuvers Byleth into a more steady position, then pushes himself up onto his elbows.

Byleth hums her agreement as she struggles with her dagger. “Judith,” Byleth says, thought half-formed. “It’s late.” It’s not quite what she wants to say, but it’s the best she can string together.

“I… uh… had some thoughts on our upcoming march,” Judith says. She gazes down at their disheveled state in bemusement, now that she's drunk in the entire scene. “But you seem… busy, boy, and I don’t want to separate you from your dear professor.”

The way Judith’s gaze slides between the two of them makes Byleth feel both swelteringly hot and yet embarrassingly bare. “We’re not busy,” Byleth says, once her drunken tongue allows a full sentence.

“Sure. And the daytime sky isn’t blue either,” Judith says. While Judith hovers in the doorway, Byleth wants to crawl beneath Claude's blanket and hide her head until the woman leaves. Judith shakes her head with a fond sigh. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me—But don’t keep it secret too long, you hear? Nardel's promised me a wyvern if you two get together before the war is out. And no, those rumors you let spread don’t cut it.”

Claude curses, spitting out a word Byleth's too drunk to recognize. “I dunno what you thought you saw, Judith—”

"We're working. That was working," Byleth says. "On battalions."

“Is that what the kids call it these days?” Judith asks, as she picks herself up from the doorframe. “Word of advice, boy. If you wish to keep a private life, lock your doors.”

“Dunno if locking would be much help with you around,” Claude mutters, but Judith's already shut the door and out of earshot. He collapses back on the floor, drags a hand over his face, and groans a second curse. "You tricked me into drinking too much, By. I coulda handled that if it weren't for you."

'By.' The affectionate nickname is sweet on his tongue, sweeter than 'Teach' or 'my friend.' "You started it," Byleth mumbles, when she remembers she can't just gaze starry-eyed at him over a pet name. Claude buries his face in both hands.

"I can't... Nardel can't promise a wyvern," Claude groans. "The fuss back home... I had to pull teeth for mine."

"I'll find Judith 'n fix it somehow," Byleth says.

Before she can stagger to her feet, Claude pulls her back down. "You'll tumble down the stairs and break your neck. Then I'll have to tell everyone, and they'll be all 'ooo, sounds like a crime of passion, Claude,' and I'll be left all by myself to explain we aren't sleeping together," Claude says. He waves an arm in the direction of his bed, littered with books. "Sleep it off there. I can't get off the floor anyways."

"Don't think I can either," Byleth mutters.

"Then sleep here," Claude murmurs. The ground is hard against her in all the wrong places, but Byleth hums her agreement. The discomfort of the floor doesn't register compared to the contentment she feels at his side.

* * *

The Riegan estate buzzes with a nervous, expectant energy as soon as Claude helps Byleth off his wyvern. Claude wrote ahead to explain they were in the region to rally lords for the Resistance. What Claude's estate somehow read was a letter divulging his intentions to propose to her, Byleth thinks.

When she arrives in her quarters, Byleth finds a dress from Judith, unsurprisingly meddlesome, waiting for her on the bed. The maids, over-eager after Claude's flashy arrival, are quick to stuff her in it before dinner. They chatter at her as they do her hair, makeup, and jewelry—much borrowed from across the estate in the name of ‘tongue-tying Master Claude’ as she has no jewelry or makeup of her own. The entire situation is a disorienting whirlwind for a mercenary with no experience in fashion or romance.

When Claude retrieves her for dinner, Byleth leaps from the torturous bedroom. Byleth is unsure if his eyes hang on her a moment too long, or if the maids have gotten into her head. She's relieved to see Claude looks bemused at her complaints. The change in attire didn't changed his opinion of her, despite what the maids said about 'tongue-tying.'

Dinner is a more private affair in one of the estate's studies, just the pair of them and Nardel. Byleth decides the booming retainer is easier to interact with, more reminiscent of the men she worked with in her mercenary years. Claude's more relaxed around him, too, and Claude's trust is so rare that Byleth finds it infectious. Somehow, the night slips into stories of battle and blade technique despite the dress.

“Your mother will like this one,” Nardel bellows, clapping Byleth’s shoulder. After a few too many good stories and warm drinks, Nardel's forgotten what appear to be some boundaries set with Claude, namely matters of their homeland. However, his rugged face is lit in a beaming grin so sunny even Claude doesn't have the heart to reprimand outright. Over her own glass, Byleth raises her eyebrows at Claude, as he debates his response.

Once he sees them both teasing, Claude throws himself back in his chair with a stubborn, flushed huff. “Ganging up on me, huh? Well, if you’re so taken with her, perhaps you should introduce her to your own mother,” Claude grumbles. "Seems you deserve each other."

Nardel waggles his eyebrows. “Aye, then. What say you, lass? If Master Claude here keeps dragging his feet on it, how ‘bout I take you home instead?” Nardel asks. On her other side, Claude flounders in mock surprise.

The maids did say to expect a proposal, Byleth thinks with a wry smile. “That’s very flattering,” Byleth says. “Since I have no other offers, I suppose I shall have to consider it.”

“Oi, whaddabout your responsibility to Fodlan? You can’t leave me alone to wrangle this mess,” Claude chides.

“But it’s true love, Claude,” Byleth says, and he bursts into proper laughter at her deadpan reply. It's been too long since he's laughed, and like his trust, Byleth finds it infectious. She bubbles into a soft giggle beside him. Once they've finally stopped, Byleth can feel Claude gazing up at her, a dopey grin on his face. She's sure they're both thinking about the rarity their laughter.

Nardel clears his throat, and Claude straightens. “Now. I need you kids to do me a favor,” Nardel says. “Master Claude’s wound about your finger, Byleth, so I trust you can keep the little trickster honorable about this.” Claude grumbles, but he doesn't outright protest, so Nardel takes that as an indication to continue.

“That lovely Lady Judith and I have a little bet runnin’. If the pair of you wait until after this whole war’s wrapped up to start… y’know, then Lady Judith’s owes me one of them fancy Fodlan swords—"

"You don't use a sword," Claude says.

"That's not important. The look on Judith's face when she’s got to admit to bein’ wrong is sure to be good,” Nardel says. Byleth tries to imagine Judith admitting any fault, but the idea is so foreign her brain rejects it. “So… What say you two keep this under wraps until then? As a favor to good ol’ Nardel for holdin’ down the fort while you two are off liberatin’ the rest of it.”

“We’re not together,” Byleth says. She's not sure that affection is something she has the full capability to feel. As an odd lump swells in her throat, she swirls her water glass.

“Aye. Exactly,” Nardel replies with a cheeky wink.

“She means we’re not together, Nardel,” Claude drawls. “And I dunno if you can call me a trickster when you’re proposing a scheme of your own.”

Nardel leans across the table, like they're planning a murder rather than a simple ruse. “Don’t we all want to take Lady Judith down a peg?” Nardel hisses.

“I think if anyone’s getting a little too big for their britches, it’s you. I leave you alone for a few months, and now you’re the sly one,” Claude says. He nudges Byleth's shoulder. “Whaddya say, Teach?”

“About what?” Byleth asks, ripping her gaze from the drink.

“Well, like the trickster I am, I’ve half a mind to go back to Judith and reveal our passionate and loving relationship now, so we can all watch Nardel grovel for her presence at dinner,” Claude says. For good measure, he takes her hand, pulls it into Nardel’s view, and laces their fingers together. Their bare palms are warm against each other. “He turns the prettiest shade of purple when he’s embarrassed. I’d rather like you to see it.”

“You’re playin’ a dangerous game there, kid—Master Claude,” Nardel growls, threatening to turn purple at the mere suggestion. “Lady Byleth, help me out here.”

Byleth sets her chin in her hand. “Once Claude has a plan in mind, I’m not sure there’s much stopping him,” Byleth says.

“Some moral compass you are,” Nardel whines, before rounding on Claude. “What is it you want, kid? Put an old man out of his misery.”

Rather than put an old man out of his misery, Claude stretches his legs and gets comfortable in his chair. “We’ll be here for a few weeks sorting out the nobles,” Claude says. “I’m still deciding.”

“Aye, you’re somethin’ all right. ‘Still deciding’ is a lot nicer wordin’ than what I’d use though,” Nardel says, as he rises to his feet. He glances to Byleth before spitting out a foreign word, playful but plainly insulting. “You keep that one in your back pocket when he’s givin’ you trouble, ey, lass?"

“Don’t you go teaching her dirty words. She’s got their goddess inside her—It’s definitely wrong for her to swear,” Claude chides, as Nardel slinks from the room. Byleth tests out the curse on her own tongue. “Hey. When you swear, what kind of blasphemy is it?”

“Oh, the worst kind, probably,” Byleth says. “I’ll have to send myself to eternal damnation for that.”

Claude smiles, another genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. She’s aware now of the closed door and their hands still interlocked. Claude's looking at their hands, too. "What are the odds he's off to write a letter to Judith?" Byleth asks, because someone needs to say something.

"Very high. I don't think his head has room for two secrets together, even if keeping them is to his benefit," Claude says. "And frankly, we can't expect Nardel to sit on such a juicy bit of info. I don't mean to brag, but our relationship status has become the hottest piece of gossip behind 'hey, whaddya think the odds are we die today' and Raphael folding up that entire pancake and sticking it in his mouth last week."

Claude releases her hand so he can drag his fingertips over the callouses on her palm and fingers. As he starts his idle investigation, he glances to her for approval. Byleth hums her agreement.

"I always knew Raphael would accomplish great things," Byleth says.

Claude grimaces. "A crime against humanity is what it was. You didn't have to witness it--And he looked me dead in the eyes, too."

"Oh, you poor little deerling," Byleth says, as she watches Claude's fingers. Satisfied with their investigation of her callouses, his fingertips trail from her palm down to her wrist. The gentle touch against her skin is equal parts soothing and weakening. When it's the pair of them alone, Byleth doesn't mind letting herself sink into vulnerability. Claude toys idly with the Deer charm on her wrist. "I treasure them, but it's nice to have a moment's respite. Hilda interrupted me three times before this trip to redo my wardrobe," Byleth says. Claude motions to the dress. "Judith. No coordination."

"She has a good eye," Claude says. As his gaze roves over the dress, Byleth straightens in her seat, but Claude doesn't say more on the dress than that. It's for the best, Byleth thinks. She's not even sure what she wanted him to say.

* * *

Another day, another village to save from beasts, and another celebration thrown by the locals. It's become routine at this point, Byleth thinks. This time, the tiny tavern is stuffed to bursting with soldiers and grateful townsfolk. Standing room is a precious commodity, even more so around her and Claude, the leaders of the small force that saved them. Byleth doesn’t mind the crowd forcing her into his side. What has her nerves racing are the strangers clapping her shoulder, squeezing her hand in gratitude, and brushing up against her in the crowd.

It's too crowded, too difficult to watch anyone. In her peripheral, she catches a barmaid reaching for Claude as he's caught in another conversation. Before Byleth can unsheathe her dagger, the girl has two fistfuls of Claude’s collar. Then, the barmaid pulls his head down and plants a kiss on his mouth. The reaction that swells in Byleth’s stomach is almost as overwhelming as the roar of approval from the tavern. The sickening, hollow draining of her belly is like nothing she's ever felt before, but Byleth's suspicious of what it is.

She's been poisoned. If she takes assessment of her individual symptoms, sudden onset nausea, numbness, lethargy, they aren't as extreme as in her experiences with poisoned blades, but the symptoms still match. And if she's been poisoned, then the best thing to do is stay calm and locate the appropriate antidote. Byleth threads her way through the crowd, abandoning Claude to the barmaid. When she snatches a backwards glance at them, Claude is giving her some quip and an easy (fake) smile. It makes her nearly trip over her own feet.

The tavern is too crowded to find Marianne, so Byleth stumbles upstairs to the inn rooms instead. Poisons are one of Claude's aptitudes, and his kit of tonics is more elaborate than anything Marianne has. She tracks down his room and tries the door. Unsurprisingly, the door is locked. The thought of going back downstairs and finding him with the woman makes her stomach sink even lower.

Instead Byleth wedges the lock open with her knife and brute force, and the door swings wide. Though they've just claimed their bedrooms, Claude's space is already a clutter of books and paperwork. Byleth picks around it for his travel bags. Inside its usual satchel is his case of poisons, and, she hopes, antidotes.

Byleth tugs open the lid and inspects the bottles. In typical Claude fashion, the disorganized bottles are unlabeled. Byleth starts to fumble through the box for any sign which potion she should drink.

"Well," Claude says. There's the soft sound of him sheathing a weapon, and Byleth rather guiltily recalls the busted lock. Though she can hear his soft footsteps approach her side, Byleth doesn't dare look at him. The painful lump in her throat suggests the poison is getting worse by the moment. Claude crouches beside her and tilts his head so he can see her face. "I was going to start on today's report, but this is much more fascinating. Whatcha up to, Teach?"

“Which of these is antitoxin?” Byleth asks.

“A bunch of them. Different poisons need different antitoxins,” Claude says. “I’m happy to talk about my hobbies, but why the sudden, desperate interest, exactly?”

“I think I’ve been poisoned,” Byleth says. The easy grin on Claude’s face melts away quicker than an ice cube in the sun.

Dropping to a seat beside her, Claude snatches the box from her hands. “Describe your symptoms,” Claude says, already rifling through the bottles at a lightning speed.

“I feel… strange,” Byleth says.

"Are you disoriented?" Claude asks. Though his search is rushed, his voice is calm. The sound of his steady voice eases some of the buzzing beneath her skin. "Is that best you can describe it?"

Byleth steadies herself with a measured inhale. “A little numb, tired, my stomach… isn’t right. It progressed rapidly. I figured I’d begin with antitoxin, in case it was poison,” Byleth says. She feels small, too, like there's nothing to do but curl into a ball. However, she's never heard of a poison that can do that.

“When did the symptoms start?” Claude asks, as he begins to set aside bottles.

“When you kissed the barmaid,” Byleth says. Claude’s hands still over the collection of bottles he’s assembling, so she pushes them aside to inspect them. “Which one of these do I start with?”

“Hey. I didn't want to kiss the barmaid. She pounced on me with the reflexes of a trained killer,” Claude says. He leans forward, examining her with such intensity that Byleth has to resist the urge to avert her gaze. “Never mind her. A poison like you described requires direct contact. I know you weren’t eating or drinking anything by then. Did you touch someone or something new?”

Byleth shakes her head. "So it's not a poison then?" Byleth asks. "What? A curse?"

Claude moves the case of poisons aside and surveys her with bemused affection. It's not the look one would give a dying woman, especially not as it cracks into giddiness. Byleth raises a questioning eyebrow. "You're not poisoned. You're jealous."

Byleth lets the word sink in. She's read of jealousy in books, but it's one of the many emotions she's never felt herself. Jealous. Of a woman who got to kiss her tactician, her dearest friend, her partner. Byleth waits for Claude to reveal it's all an elaborate prank, but no 'Surprise!' follows.

The urge to run this time is too much to resist. She can't even look him in the eye. "I... Since I'm not dying, I should probably go. I've got my own reports to fill out for Seteth," Byleth says.

"Byleth--"

"Sorry for rummaging through your things," Byleth says, shoveling potions back into the case. "And sorry for breaking the lock into your room. I can't fix that one."

“Byleth,” Claude says, catching her hands. Byleth freezes, not daring to make matters worse by moving. "I'd rather like you to stay--at least a moment."

”Do you need my input on your report to the Alliance?” Byleth asks their hands.

”I don’t think the Alliance needs to know about this,” Claude says. His voice is soft, almost sweet, tempting her to peep up at him. Byleth doesn’t indulge, certain that meeting his eye will push her beyond a point of no return. “I’ve had my suspicions for a while. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Byleth wants to melt through the floorboards. How long has he known, she wants to ask, but the answer is sure to be mortifying. When it becomes apparent she’s not about to reply, Claude clears his throat. “I just... wasn’t sure how much of it was me dreaming and how much of it was true. I’ve not had many proper friends growing up. For a bit, I thought maybe this was... friends,” Claude says. “But it’s not, is it?”

Byleth listens to his words, then replays them. Finally, she dares to glance at his face. The rare, rosy hue painting Claude’s cheeks is as intoxicating as a stiff drink. “Is it?” Claude asks, a nervous lilt in his voice.

Byleth imagines leaning in and kissing away the worry in his lips, before dragging herself back to their reality. “We have a responsibility to the Resistance Army,” Byleth says. “I’m the commander. You’re our tactician. There’s work—“

“There’s always work to do,” Claude says, and Byleth knows he’s right. She contemplates letting Claude pass her by in the name of work, imagines him with some other girl on his arm, one who wouldn’t confuse jealousy with an attempt on her life. A woman who could feel properly would probably be more fair to him.

But Claude wants her. “Close your eyes,” Byleth mumbles. Claude complies, a smile threatening to part his lips already. Her heart can’t pound, but as she leans in, Byleth can feel her pulse race. Their noses brush, and Claude’s lips are on hers. 

In some ways, it's a natural continuation of every private moment they've ever had, and in others, it's a wild, pulse-stuttering departure. His touch is gentle, so feather-light she can barely feel it on her skin. She can still feel it in her belly and bones, as warmth swells inside her. Byleth pushes forward, and Claude yields his mouth entirely.

He tastes like mead and sunshine. When they break apart, Byleth feels like her head has been left behind somewhere in the stars. Claude cocks his head as if listening for something, then grins toothily at her. “Resistance didn’t collapse,” Claude says, as he laces their fingers together.

Byleth rests her her head against him with a happy hum. Their relationship, though different, is still as comfortable to her as ever.


End file.
